


Red Room

by Misinterpreted



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types, Justice League of America (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Brainwashing, Dissociation, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied Sexual Content, Kryptonite, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Torture, Trauma, actually not that much comfort, red sun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misinterpreted/pseuds/Misinterpreted
Summary: Luthor lifted his drink. His eyes glinted like dark, blood-red rubies. "Cheers," he said. "To us."With a blank face, Superman lifted his glass in an act of holy puppetry.





	1. Poison

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from. Actually, no, that's a lie: it came from that animated Doomsday film from a couple years back, in which Luthor beats the hell out of clone (or robot?) Superman in a red room. It seriously raised the hairs on my neck. Anyway, I probably unburied that scene from the recesses of my mind while I was writing this. That does not excuse the horrors I have unleashed upon poor Superman in this story. I'm sorry, Superman. I swear I don't hate you.

The work of a world leader could go on forever, but President Luthor always, always returned to his quarters by midnight, with strict orders that, barring a nuclear disaster or domestic crisis, he should not be disturbed. He would read for a bit, then take a shower, and relax in his robe until he felt ready.

Then, he would enter the secret elevator behind the bookcase.

 

Down the elevator took him, into the very bowels of the White House. It opened to a small room lit an oppressive red. Inside was an armchair, a bed, a small kitchenette, and a glass case of kryptonite-based weapons.

The lone occupant, who had been staring at the collection of weapons, approached the elevator as he heard the doors slid open.

President Luthor stepped out of the elevator and regarded him coolly and expectantly.

"Good evening, sir," said Superman with a slight bow of his head, his eyes hovering over Luthor's shoes.

No response was expected from Luthor. Superman helped him out of his robe and went to hang it by the door; Luthor settled into the armchair and put his feet up. "I'll have the usual," he said. "Go easy on the ice."

"Yes, sir," Superman said. In the kitchen, with slow, deliberate movements, he prepared a scotch.

"Make one for yourself, too," Luthor said.

Superman poured another one. When he was finished, he brought the two drinks to Luthor, and handed him one. Luther snapped his fingers towards the floor by his side; Superman knelt down and sat on his knees.

Luthor lifted his drink. His eyes glinted like dark, blood-red rubies. "Cheers," he said. "To us."

With a blank face, Superman lifted his glass in an act of holy puppetry.

 

The moment Superman lifted his own drink, the red light glared on the tip of his glass, and pain licked his forehead like a wayward flame. Punishment, he thought absurdly. His every experience of pain he interpreted as punishment and all punished as deserved. "To us," he repeated.

He waited for Luthor to drink, and then he himself sipped slowly. The cold, bitter flavor of alcohol stung his mouth. A tenderness to alcohol was something he'd acquired in the red room: in his earlier life, with a swirl of faces and names that no longer meant anything to him, alcohol had been as weak as water.

Again his mind flashed images of faces, wordless faces . . . he felt something horrible, a longing, terror. . . and then it passed. Like the end of dusk, or like a switch had been flicked off.

"Drink it all."

He obeyed. Then he opened his eyes and stared into the empty glass and the severe red reflection and it bore into his skull like a dull vibration . . . Luthor was petting his head now, and he leaned into the touch. In the fingers caressing his hair he forgot himself. He collapsed on all fours and let his eyes fall shut.

 

Luthor chuckled quietly.

"Earth's savior," he head Luthor murmur. "The most powerful individual in the world. A god -- bent over like a dog." He raked his fingers through the god's hair with more force. Superman's countenance was one of concentrated serenity, perfectly still, his lips parting of their own accord.

 

Luthor tore his hand away and smacked him across his face.

"Go take a shot. Make it two. Three."

His face burned with the memory of the impact. _Punishment_ , came the echo in his heart again. "Yes, sir," he said as he rose to his feet.

He felt light and fluid from the first drink. After three more shots, his whole body felt warm, even his brain. His vision jumped.

"Very good," Luthor purred. "Take another."

Again Superman poured a shot and downed it.

"And another."

Again he poured.

"Another."

The empty glass clanged against the countertop.

"Take the bottle to your mouth. You may drink until I instruct you to stop."

With clumsy hands, Superman lifted the bottle of scotch to his lips and slowly drank. It felt like a fireball was thrashing in his stomach. His whole body pulsed with an agonizing heat. _But I have to drink it now._ The singleminded thought fastened him to the act of taking in the poison, like it was medicine.

"Stop."

He gasped as he broke off contact from the bottle. Less than a quarter cup remained.

He gripped the counter with one hand and rubbed his temples with the other. Clusters of dull pain thudded over his eyes. The red overhead lights hurt so much...

His eyes opened to a memory: blinding red lights, nausea, weakness, all pining him down to a cold steel table--and that shrill scream that ripped up the insides of his throat like a razor...

"What is going on inside that alien excuse for a brain? Get over here. Now."

The command snapped his mind to full alertness. His spine straightened like a cracked whip. _Forget it. It doesn't matter. It's nothing. Nothing._

He returned to Luthor and knelt at his feet resting on the footstool.

The rest of the evening dimmed. He could focus on nothing except Luthor, from his shoes up to his impassive eyes. He could think of nothing else. The red glint of the glass he held beckoned him, and even later on he saw it branded onto his eyelids, dizzyingly red and transparent, shaking with each unforgiving tremor into his backside: _I deserve this. I deserve this._


	2. Discipline

It was getting confusing. There were dreams. They sliced through his gut like a cold knife.

He saw a woman with dark hair and pleading eyes. He knew her from before--from a long time ago. A time that, Mr. Luthor had told him, no longer mattered. But still she came, and she led him to other people: the older couple, the young blonde woman in a blue and red uniform like his own, a dark-caped figure with pointy ears, a boy with red hair and a camera . . . more and more people, all faintly familiar, stretching down endless lines that led into a wheat field, to a house that called to him. The door swung open.

He was immobile. Rooted to the dirt of the earth of which he did not belong.

_I don't belong._

He always looked down at the earth beneath his red boots and watch it creep up the tops of his feet, slide up his legs, sucking him down faster, the dirt streaming into his mouth to muffle his screams.

He woke up with a silent scream in his mouth.

From the ceiling, red solar lamps, dimmed so that he could sleep, sucked away at his energy. But his eyes twitched whenever he tried to close them. His heart beat forcefully in his chest.

He pulled himself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Splashed water on his face. The cool water eased his head, which still ached from the scotch, despite his earlier pre-bed five-minute yellow sunning. Five more minutes and he'd be in perfect shape, but Mr. Luthor had wanted to leave him with something to remember.

Unbidden, the dream came back. The faces. The woman. The house in the field. The carnivorous earth.

What did it all mean?

When the faces arose in his mind during the day his heart pounded but he always wrestled the feeling effortlessly, like snapping a dog's neck. But in dreams, he helplessly followed the faces, one after another, and the familiarity, the longing, crushed him.

_Stupid._ He felt his face scowling. _It means nothing. NOTHING._

And now something crawled from the darkness and clutched his soul. And it was like time stopped and he was _there_ again, in the _other_ red room, the one that seemed to be from a dream, except that he _knew_ it wasn't, he knew, from deep within, that that room had been real and it had been horrible, so horrible that even now the metal table chilled his bare back as something cold and sharp and solid scraped away his insides...

_No. Stop. STOP._

Control. Get a hold of yourself. Discipline. Pain was discipline. He got into a hot shower, scalding hot, and he stayed there until his skin turned red and the burning sensation killed that thing inside him that had taken over moments ago. It was like letting the red enter him. It was like letting Luthor enter him.

Luthor.

When he was with Mr. Luthor, his mind slowed, and his very being fragmented and splintered, like an endlessly breaking mirror. Only when he was rewarded for good behavior did the broken pieces of himself reassemble into an imperfect whole. Or when he was being disciplined for disobedience.

He turned off the shower. Now he felt better. He felt hard, inside and down below. He wrapped his hand around his erection and gave it a couple quick, joyful pumps. He let his hand linger and his thoughts go down their usual path.

\--

The artificial yellow sun poured down on his skin and sun beneath to the molecular level, and he felt its warmth flowing through his body like a virile river of blood, refreshing every weary cell with pure energy.

He was standing in The Cube, a blank, two-way mirror-enclosed room where he trained his powers, awaiting his first task of the day. He stared at his reflection: blank and naked as the mirrors themselves.

Presently, the loudspeaker embedded in the walls crinkled to life, and a man's voice--one of the scientists--announced: "Good morning, Superman."

"Good morning," he answered the voice behind his reflection, as required.

"Today, we're going to start by testing your control over your hearing. We are going to play a recording of a sound. Name the sound. Are you ready?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Begin."

The speaker clicked and died; there was nothing, save for his own steady breath. Staring deeply into that nothing that lay beyond his reflection, he focused his ears and willed his hearing to stretch beyond The Cube to the surrounding labs, and instantly he caught it at a frequency unattainable for human ears.

"It's a heartbeat," he said.

"That is correct. Now we're going to bring in more sounds. Focus on the heartbeat. Count the number of times the heart beats on my signal. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I understand."

"Good. Begin."

 _One. Two. Three._ He came so fixated on it that his breathing became in sync with it. _Six. Seven. Eight._ Then, slowly, other noises emerged: traffic noises like engines, horns, screeching tires; the mechanical moan of construction; laughter and talking, in a range of voices, male and female; insects rubbing their legs; babies sucking their thumbs; fish pumping fins through water-- _twenty. Twentyonetwentytwotwentythree...._ These sounds swirled together as though they belonged together to form a thickening soup. _Fortyfivefortysixfortyseven--_

He didn't remember much about the first time he had been subjected to this test. What he remembered was this: banging his head against the wall, trying to drive out the unbearable noises tuning in and out at explosive volumes.

But by now he had been trained. He pushed against the noises the way a god could push through clouds, making precious space for the heartbeat. The heartbeat pulsed in a private aura, in its own little world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments are welcomed.


	3. Belonging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where things get triggery for some people, so please mind the Archive warnings attached.

The first time he saw the suit, he didn't want to put it on.

Mr. Luthor, standing behind him, gripped him by the arms as he led him to the suit. It hung on a headless mannequin, propped up on a small, round dais. They came closer and closer, until he was eye level with the S shield.

He stared at the suit, at that S, and it was like the breath died in his throat and his heart refused to beat. Confusion blossomed in his heart like a vulnerable flower.

He felt fingers pressing into his arms and warm breath grazing his neck, drilling into his ear: "Something wrong?"

He blinked. He cleared his throat and forced himself to answer, though he didn't know what to say, what to think-- "I don't know -- I don't -- I don't like it."

But immediately after blurting out those words, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. He knew he had to be punished.

_Stupid. Idiot alien._

Mr. Luthor sniggered in his ear; its memory slithered around his brain. Sweat burst suddenly on his forehead, on the back of his neck and the small of his back--everywhere. The hands gripping his arms relaxed and slid clockwise, one sweeping up the tiny beads of sweat along his back, the other brushing his bare chest, then up his neck, and settled snuggly onto his cheek, fingertips creeping into his hair. And he allowed this hand to pull his head away from the disconcerting symbol and into the calming dead seas of Luthor's eyes.

"You don't _like_ it," Luthor repeated. "What you like or dislike is irrelevant. Haven't you learned that by now?"

"Yes, sir."

The fingers cradling his face dug into his skin.

"Put it on."

And released.

He did as he was told.

The act of tucking the red cape into his shoulders roused something in him, an old, reassuring feeling -- like he had done it a thousand times before. But he couldn't remember ever having worn this. He couldn't remember ever having worn anything, in fact. He felt so many eyes on him; he yearned to be naked again.

Luthor regarded him with a small smile.

"Yes," he murmured, nodding to himself, one hand stroking his chin, the other in his pocket. "You're the genuine article, all right."

One of the scientists, peering over his clipboard, approached Luthor to ask something -- he didn't know what and didn't care; he fell into that empty space in his head as he had been trained to do whenever his superiors had something to discuss. He bore these moments calmly, silently, patiently: completely at their mercy.

\--

For the rest of the day he wore the suit, even during training. He was told that he had to learn to feel comfortable in it, just like he had to feel comfortable using his powers. "You _will_ get used to it," Mr. Luthor had commanded as they walked together to The Cube, a team of scientists trailing behind them.

He was determined to obey this command. In The Cube, he stared down his reflection as he would an enemy. But he couldn't take his eyes away from the gaudy primary colors, as though they were something grotesque. He couldn't help but think of it as a rash encasing his body.

\--

That night, he waited by the elevator entrance to greet Mr. Luthor. Under the influence of the red lights, every muscle in his body ached from today's training.

He heard the moan of the elevator descending. The glass doors parted, and in strode Mr. Luthor. He was still in his suit, the presidential pin of the American flag on the left lapel.

Luthor's eyes darted all over his body.

Superman opened his mouth to greet him, but before he could, Luthor's fist smashed into the right side of his face. He stumbled; Luthor grabbed him by the hair and forced him to his knees.

"Where's your suit," Luthor demanded. He yanked his head upward. "Look at me, alien."

Luthor's face was a maze of red and dark, snarling shadows.

The pain pulsed in his brow and beneath his eye, but it was nothing compared to the cold fear living inside his gut.

"Who gave you permission to take off the suit?" Luthor asked almost kindly, as though he were addressing a very stupid child.

"No one, sir," he admitted.

 _Look at me._ The shame of disobedience locked his gaze on Luthor's eyes.

Luthor released his hair with a shove. He fell back on the floor, on his forearm.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Put it back on! No, don't get up--crawl on your hands and knees like the dog that you are."

He'd hung the suit in the shower. With trembling hands pulled the tight fabric over his head, up his legs. Then, head hanging low, he returned to the floor and crawled back to Luthor's feet.

When Luthor began to stroke his hair, the seams of his body and soul loosened. The stroking hand reached down to the back of his neck, at the base of his shoulders, on the tattoo of his serial number. Locked onto it.

"Do you remember," Luthor said, "the first time I fucked you?"

He closed his eyes and thought. When had the first time been? His memory was a dark, shallow cave. He remembered being fucked by Mr. Luthor many times . . . many times in this very room, and he vaguely remembered being fucked on a steel table in . . . in the _other_ red room--or had he dreamed it? A dream. Yes. Maybe. He'd dreamt many things during the reprogramming, a period of his life as hazy as infancy.

"No, sir," he answered.

The hand around his neck pulled him up into a kneeling position.

From above him rumbled a deep, mirthless chuckle.

"A shame," he said. "For me, it was unforgettable." Abruptly he withdrew his hand and rapidly unbuttoned his shirt. Across his abdomen was a long, faded scar. "How did I get this?"

Superman studied the scar. He'd seen it many times, but never thought about it, not once. He shook his head.

"It's from you," Luthor said.

Superman blinked. "Me?"

"Yes. You fought me. _Tried_ , rather." Luthor began buttoning his shirt back up. "Nevertheless, I succeeded in fucking you. I told you that it was necessary in order for me to break you. After I came in your ass, you said to me, 'You will never break me, Luthor.' And as I wiped the tears off your face I said, 'I already have.' Any of that ring a bell?"

Lips tight, he slowly shook his head.

"Go get one of the weapons from the case. The knife on the far left."

On shaking legs he stood to his feet, but as he walked to the weapons case a calm descended upon him. The kryptonite knife, sheathed in lead, lay in his two hands as he presented it to Luthor, who took it.

"This was the knife I had on me at the time," he said, "which you then used to give me this scar." They were both staring at the knife, and Luthor was smoothing it with his forefinger. Then he tore the sheath off. "Lift up your shirt."

As the the blood dripped down the blue tights and touched the red of his boots, he realized then that these were the same boots that he had worn in the dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I always appreciate kudos and comments.


	4. Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been soooooo busy, so this chapter took a while. Many apologies. I think this will be a pretty long story; each chapter that I plan becomes two chapters. Thanks for your patience.

_"I want to fuck you just like our first time," came the dark whisper in his ear. "Fight me."_

_Darkness. Pain, everywhere. Thrashing his arms and legs, choking, he did not so much fight as feel_ _his body begging for mercy. Instinct became adrenaline, became resistance. It was a biological compulsion that meant he was alive._

_Alive, on the precipice of destruction._

_He went still. He thought he'd died. But then, slowly, his mind awakened to his body. The deathly grip of the chain around his neck. The pulsing pressure weaving in and out of his ass. Fingers slipping through his greasy hair. And the enveloping, immobilizing ache of kryptonite._

_Then the chain disappeared. The fingers let go._

_He was free. He was weightless. He was flying._

_His face hit the ground, but he didn't feel it._

_They were carving something into the back of his neck. They were using tiny kryptonite needles. He dragged himself upright. There was a syringe in his neck. He reached behind him and pulled it out, but what he saw was a kryptonite knife, so he slashed it around wildly, drunk on the hope that the only thing in the world that could kill him would now save him._

_Luthor screamed. He couldn't see him but he knew he was somewhere in the dark, somewhere close._

_"You, you filthy alien, you_ rodent _\--how_ dare _you defy your superior!"_

_You said you wanted it like the first time, he said._

_"Let's make this the last time, then."_

_And the kryptonite knife was snatched from him and it was thrust into his body, slicing it open for the buzzing swarm of scientists with their scalpels and needles glinting like salivating teeth._

 

 

Again and again, he missed. The target, a hologram of a black sphere, kept darted along the mirrors in a syncopated, rhythmless sequence. His task was to hit the sphere with his laser vision as many as possible--but of course, the only way to pass the test was to hit the sphere each time it appeared.

He was not going to pass. He hated himself.

_Rodent._

He remembered the dream-- _"just like our first time"_ \--though he wished he could forget it. He wished it would wash down the drain with all the other pieces of himself. The less of himself, the better. He had to rid himself _of_ himself, skin cell by skin cell, like taking bits of himself and flinging them into a dark well, so deep you can't hear the patter against the water, you just needed faith that it was gone. But the dream was like a pebble flung back from the well by some defiant, lurking beast.

He missed the black sphere again and struck the force field that barricaded the two-way mirrors of The Cube--and something inside him broke.

The scream shot out of him: a guttural, teeth-baring scream extricated from the deepest, darkest chambers of his body. His eyes burned and his vision was soaked in red as he let it out, he let it all out--he couldn't control himself--

His knees buckled to the floor, his hands too. The scream had died. The red had vanished from his eyes. In the vacuum of the rage that had consumed him only moments ago, there was now heavy, suffocating pain.

From far away he heard footsteps approaching. He struggled to raise his head. The doctors stood over him. One of them, the one with the dark glasses and crooked nose, had a needle. When he saw the green-tinted needle, every muscle twitched in rebellion as they held him down.

The doctor with the needle knelt beside his head and with his free hand softly began to unclasp his cape.

"Shh. Don't struggle. Be a good boy."

Someone was pulling his head to the side, exposing the bare skin of his neck to the needle.

The hands holding his head were firm, yet gentle. He was getting weaker, but the instinct to fight survived in his arms and legs. The hands were gentle and the doctor's voice was soft, but he couldn't stop fighting until his eyes closed. Then everything stopped.

 

 

When he awoke, he saw the same doctor sitting across from him, so close their knees almost touched. Shadows curled around the doctor's dark glasses and his thin lips, making him look like a monstrous fly.

"Are you feeling calmer now?" the doctor asked.

He thought about it. He listened to the silence in his body: nothing hurt, no fear clawed up the walls of his stomach. He was free from pain and panic, blissfully blank. Some kind of strap held his head upright so that it didn't fall, and he felt protected by it. As he stared at the bug-eyed doctor, who was patiently waiting for a response, he felt his mind opening and stretching. He tried to open his mouth . . . but it was already open. Only then did he became aware of the saliva pooling around his bottom front teeth and spilling over his lip . . . With tremendous energy he brought his lips together-- _plop_ came the sound of their union--and swallowed heavily.

Then he answered, barely above a whisper, "Yes."

The doctor smiled. "Very good," he praised. "You were quite upset earlier, weren't you?"

"Yes," he answered again. "I was." He frowned. The words didn't sound like they had come out right.

"What made you so upset? Tell me."

He tried to think again, but it was so hard to recall those feelings . . . In blurry, slow-motion his mind moved backward. . . He was in The Cube. He was seeing red. And even though he couldn't summon that wild anger again, he saw the reason for that anger--he saw it so clearly.

"Dream," he answered. His mouth struggled to shape the words. "Because of a dream."

"Tell me about the dream. Remember as much as you can and describe it to me in detail."

The dream replayed itself again in his mind, and he described it to the doctor, word by word, like assembling blocks: "Fighting. Falling. Needles in my neck . . ." The dream replayed itself again and again until he got every detail.

"That's enough," the doctor said at last. "This dream must be very confusing to you, isn't it?"

"Confusing."

"Yes, I can see you're confused, and I have a plan. We're going to give you another test--no, let's call it an activity. One you'll like more. And you'll complete it successfully because you'll enjoy it so much."

Then the doctor reached into the briefcase leaning against the side of the chair and pulled out a tablet device. He tapped it a few times. And then he flipped it and set it on his lap, showing the screen.

"And when you complete this test, you'll forget all about the dream."

On the screen, wings flaring out from its dark, fuzzy body, teeth barred, was a bat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I creep myself out more and more with each chapter that I write. I wonder if Stephen King ever said that about himself. As always I appreciate kudos and comments; it's especially helpful if you ask questions because then I know what's clear and what's not. Thanks!


	5. Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I freaking love B.D. Wong's performance as Hugo Strange on the Gotham tv series. That's the version of Strange that I had in mind when I wrote this.
> 
> I have mixed feelings about this chapter. It may really be too creepy and I'm considering taking it down for a massive rewrite. I'm trying to write in the horror genre so that's why. There is a really disgusting/violent part here too, so I Also I thought t was my idea, but then I realized it's actually from another fic called "Luthor Triumphant" which is really interesting and really depressing.

  _“Do you dream a lot, Superman?"_

 _“I . . . I think so.”_  

  _"What kinds of things do you dream about?”_

 There was a long pause, an interlude of surrounding noises that the microphone picked up and rolled up into a ball of static; then:

  _"People. Places."_

 " _I see. And do you know who those people are?"_

  _"I don't--I don't know. Faces. No -- not . . . not faces. Just . . . familiar. A woman. I remember her. Dark hair. And others. Bright colors. So many people_. . _.I don't . . ."_

 " _I know. It's hard to remember. You're doing very well. Now tell me: do these people talk to you?"_

  _"Come . . . back. They . . . say. Come. Back."_

  _"Come back where?"_

  _"I . . . don't know."_

_"I see. And when they say 'come back,' what do you do?"_

_"I--I go. With them. Sometimes. Or . . . burn them. With my eyes."_

"Enough," said the President.

When Dr. Hugo Strange tapped the screen of recording device, which sat in front of him at the table, the recording ended, and instantly the room flooded with thick, contemplative silence. 

Five men sat at the oval-shaped table of Room 44, a dark, enclosed room in the underground compound that was designated for meetings. They were: Dr. Hugo Strange, Lead Psychiatrist; Dr. Emil Hamilton, Lead Geneticist; Dr. Jonathon Crane, Lead Chemist; and Dr. Moon, Psychological Reprogramming Specialist; and the President himself.

Before and during the reprogramming, they had met in this room daily, sometimes twice a day, with or without the President, as it was crucial that everyone share their respective team's observations, propose strategies, and agree on a systemized plan of execution. To meet at this moment, with only forty-five minutes' notice, was a highly unusual occurrence.

President Luthor sat with his elbows propped on the table and chin buried his hands, steeped in thought. 

"It--It's possible," Hamilton began in a shaking voice, "that--that exposure to yellow sunlight has started to rebuild his cells that were damaged by the Reprogramming--"

"I thought that we'd ruled out that possibility," Luthor snapped.

"We have," Strange smoothly intervened. "And it's not unusual for patients to have moments of partial recollection."

Crane steepled his fingers, rubbing the tips. "In my professional opinion," he said, "we took him off the cocktail too soon. I suggest we re-expose him to a baseline dose of fear toxin." He let his eyes crawl over the faces around the table, and licked his lips.

"Crane may have a point," Moon said. "Although I'm not suggesting we inject him with fear toxin per say just for the sake of it--as I suspect my colleague is--I do think another round of Reprogramming is necessary." 

"Another round," Luthor muttered. He leaned forward and rubbed his temples. "And what if he remembers again?" When no one knew how to respond, he composed himself and directed his attention at Strange. "Did you ask him why he didn't tell us about the dreams?"

"I did," said Strange. "He said he was afraid of being punished."

Luthor let out an aggravated sigh. "What's your recommendation, then, Hugo?"

"I've already told you," Strange said calmly. "The only way to ensure permanent control over him is a lobotomy."

"Absolutely not," Luthor said. "The U.S. military has no use for a vegetable."

Strange's gaze, shielded behind his shaded glasses, never wavered from the President. A tiny smile played on his lips. "Oh?"

Luthor scowled, almost too annoyed by this trivial challenge to parry it. But he forced himself to pause and observe Strange, to decode his countenance. Out of all the scientists in the room, Hugo Strange knew the most about the alien. Strange was the one who had sat with the alien daily to gently wring out all his secrets, and to fill him with new ones--secrets of which even the other scientists knew nothing. Secrets that bound the alien to Luthor.

 "We've already established," Hamilton said, severing the tension between Luthor and Strange, "that a lobotomy could risk damaging his higher mental functions, which would make him useless to the government's objectives."

 No one in the room really knew for sure if what Hamilton said was true, or to what degree it was true--but no one dared to steer the discussion in that direction.

 For now, Strange, unflinching, relented. "All right," he conceded calmly. "Then I propose we move on to the bat experiment."

 "Oooh," Crane crooned. "I'm in favor of that."

"So you believe we should just move on," Luthor said in a steely voice, "like this little episode never happened?"

"No, of course not. We can use the bat experiment as a way to re-establish the principle that he needs to be controlled because he cannot control himself. What happened today, I believe, arose from the problem of self-control: it takes a lot of concentration, a lot of repression, to be as docile as he's been. He needs an opportunity to express his suffering."

There was a pause in which everyone digested Strange's analysis. Then Moon added, "I agree. Suffering is a condition that can be loved only if there is opportunity for expression. And besides, we've strenuously prepped him for this experiment. Let's not forget that we're on a timetable."

"Yes," Strange said. "Unless . . . shall we inform Amanda?"

But of course Strange had known the answer this. Everyone in the room knew that Luthor would not want this episode reported to Amanda Waller, who, as director of the project, would have pushed them down the lobotomy route. And everyone knew that Luthor opposed even researching the potential risks.

 For a long moment, Luthor studied Strange. In the end, he growled, "Arrange it for tomorrow. I want him closely monitored afterward. And I want to observe it myself." He turned to Hamilton. "You said he's having a skinning session now?"

"Yes," Hamilton said. "We didn't want to waste an afternoon . . . so we had his skinning session bumped up to today." 

When the President stood, everyone followed suit.

\--

Machinery whizzed through the air in soft undercurrents, like a scattering of working bees. Silent, focused, the scientists studied screens, clipboards, and the slabs of thin pale flesh, slightly silhouetted with blood and stray muscle fibers, laid out on an immense examination table.

 Beyond the swarm of scientists, computers, microscopes, and tables, the subject of their observation stood in the grip of an apparatus made just for him.

 His arms were spread wide, encased in metal from shoulder to wrist, hands dangling; the same metal covered his legs, which were straight so that his feet rested on the metal platform of the apparatus. A helmet of sorts held his head upright, and in his mouth was a rectangular gag with metal bindings that secured his jaw. Poles connected to the metal on his head, arms, and legs; they stretched out and angled to the platform on the ground, like sleek pipes, or like a jungle gym on a playground. They kept his body perfectly upright, in the posture of a proud, mythic hero.

 President Luthor stood before the figure, this so-called "Superman." After the meeting, he had felt compelled to come here and seek reassurance that this body was still his property. 

 With his eyes closed, the alien looked peaceful, drowning in sleep, even as the metal bindings emitted red sunlight, and the kryptonite lasers drilled into the skin of his back.

Luthor stepped around to survey the work. Presently the lasers were working on the left side of his back, near the shoulder blade. To avoid excess injury, the lasers worked slowly and incrementally; Luthor estimated it would take another hour to completely remove the skin on one side. To the right of his spine, his back was a grotesque tapestry of tangled muscle, blood, and white bone. A small panel aimed yellow sunlight at it, and once it had healed completely, they would repeat the process.

They divided his back in this way in order to protect his spine, which, when exposed to red sunlight or kryptonite, was just as vulnerable as that of a human. It annoyed Luthor that they were the same in this regard, and in many others. Once they had really excavated his living body and observed the softening of tissue under red sun lamps, they discovered that Superman shared a lot of the same physical characteristics as humans: sensitivity to heat and cold; the same organs, though their size and placement in his body varied; a need for oxygen, food, and sleep; colonies of gut bacteria--and the list continued. Psychologically, in the estimation of Strange and Moon, he was no different from any other mature adult: he had feelings, ideas, and sexual desire.

It was disappointing how similar they were. He almost could have been human--he looked like one, talked like one, felt emotions like one.

But the fact that he wasn't was what made this whole project possible. And their different points of origin was like an invisible line that separated them. It was the loophole in the law, and in logic: Superman was not human. 

He was property. 

And property equaled profit. So far, they had made over a hundred indestructible body armor suits for the U.S. military.

_A woman. I remember her. Dark hair._

Compulsively, he reached up and grabbed the alien's face. Squeezed. His skin was of cold, smooth, sturdy material.

"Unearthly, isn't it?" said a voice from behind. Luthor let go and spun around. It was Dr. Strange. "His skin, I mean."

"Hugo." Luthor gritted his teeth. "Something I can do for you?"

But Strange didn't seem to have heard him. He strode past Luthor and, with a small smile, gazed up at the trapped, sleeping figure.

"The Messiah, broken. Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, ready to create or destroy at your command. My colleagues assume that when you look at him you just see dollar signs. But that's not entirely true, is it?"

As irritating as Strange was, his words pin-balled in Luthor's head: _Messiah. Shiva._  Something stirred in Luthor, and he couldn't take his eyes away from the creature. 

"What they fail to understand," Strange continued, "is the principle of ownership for its own sake. Ownership is pleasurable, isn't it? Money simply doesn't compare to that kind of power. I understand." As Luthor had done moments ago, he reached up to touch Superman's face, but lovingly.

"What exactly do you _want,_ Hugo," Luthor snapped. It bothered him, seeing Strange touch the alien--as though he had the right to. 

Strange withdrew his hand to his side. As he turned to face Luthor, his mouth drew into a very sober frown.

"I came here to tell you about Hamilton," Strange said. "He's talking to reporters. _A_ reporter. I'm sure you know who."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's Hamilton's deal? Is he Superman's friend or enemy? It keeps changing throughout the comics and the animated series, so I decided on this narrative: they used to be friends, then H got scared of metahumans and turned coat; now he feels guilty. 
> 
> As for Doctor Moon, I actually have no freaking idea who he is. That's why he doesn't say much in this chapter. Anyone got any comic book recs featuring him? I'm all ears.
> 
> Thanks to all who have been reading, giving kudos, and commenting. I also just realized anon messages are a thing (I am new to AO3), so please send a message if something is unclear or you have a comment: my tumblr is misinterpreted789 (and there's nothing there because I'm super new to tumblr and still trying to understand it).


	6. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I sat down to write one chapter but then another came out. Whoops. This story is getting loooong.

 

There was a message waiting for him when he woke up.

 First, the alarm beside his bed woke him up. His eyes peeled open, and he reached for the switch. When he turned it off, a recorded voice then instructed him: "Shower, dress, and go to Sector Six."

 It repeated four more times, and then echoed in his head. Shower, dress. Go to Sector Six.

 He sat up and rubbed his head. He felt heavy, like he'd been sleeping for too long. And his mouth was so dry he couldn't swallow. There was a paper cup of ice chips and a plastic spoon. He scooped a single ice chip past his lips, and for what felt like a long time he let his eyes fall shut as the cold, wet ice spread and melted enough for his jaw muscles to slide it down.

Then he started to notice that his back hurt. Not the muscle--the skin. It felt hot, inflamed, like something had burned it. 

 In the shower, he tried to piece it all together. The last thing he remembered was that test, that stupid black dot that he just kept missing. Why . . . ? How was it possible that he kept missing it? "What's wrong with me?" he wondered aloud. Again he saw the black dot evading his aim. His fists cut through the stream of water and smashed against the wall, like a shadow to his voice: "What's. Wrong. With. ME."

Control yourself. Breathe. He took big gulps of air, forced it down and out. Heaved with anger and hatred for himself. He felt it disperse with every exhale, but some of it settled deep in his chest like a pile of ash. His fist was still pressing against the steel wall. As though his hand was an object, he willed it to unfurl, to spread and splay the fingers against the steel, and trembling, it did. Water cascaded down the fingertips, the wrist, the arm, and as he watched, whatever had taken hold of him moments before now trickled out. He swallowed, breathed in and out. He felt empty, disembodied. Ready to follow orders, and to then to float in the mute satisfaction of fulfilling those orders.

 Sector Six. He remembered his first order of the day. Ruthlessly he scrubbed his arms and legs, even the skin of his back.

 --

Beyond his little room was the rest of the compound, vast and intricate as a maze. He expertly weaved through the halls on his own as though it were his childhood neighborhood. The steel walls, tinted red from the lights above, were harsh but familiar, and therefore a comfort. When he passed by people in white coats, he said hello, unsmiling. To ignore them would have been disrespectful.

 Sector Six was where his day of training always began. First, he was given something to eat, such as watery oatmeal and a protein bar. Then the doctors would check his vitals and casually quiz him on the important facts of his existence: _Are you a human or an alien? Are you superior or inferior? What is your mission here on earth?_ He liked answering their questions because he knew the correct answers, and that made him feel good.

 But after the retinal scanner swept his eye and the door slid open, he did not find his usual tray of food, but a table of colorful breakfast platters. At the table was an empty chair and an occupied one.

 "Sit down," Luthor said. His eyes didn't stray from the newspaper he was reading. "Eat."

 Slowly, heart hammering, he stepped into the room and sat in the empty chair. His knees knocked into Luthor's, and it sent a tremor through his body. Luthor, still reading the paper, brought a cup of coffee to his lips and sipped it.

  _Eat._ He surveyed the platters on the table: scrambled eggs with broccoli and mushroom, buttered toast, sausage links, slices of fresh pineapple, and a cup of black coffee. His stomach writhed with hunger.

 But as he scooped the eggs onto his plate, as he selected a piece of toast and pineapple, it occurred to him that he knew what these things were. He knew what eggs were. He understood the concept of toast. Yet this was the first time he'd seen these foods. No one had ever explained them to him. He just knew. Just like, before taking his first bite of egg, he knew what it would taste like. It was wonderful: savory, creamy, a little crunchy from the broccoli. The pineapple was sweet and juicy. He knew it would be. Just like he knew the dark-haired woman in the dreams had been his wife.

 The fork dropped from his hand and clattered against the plate.

 He heard the newspaper rustling. The flavor drained away from the food in his mouth. 

 "So you do remember," he heard Luthor say.

 His plate, with the egg and the toast and the fork, blurred together. Tears stung his eyes.

 "How much."

 "Not much," he murmured.

  _BAM._  Luthor's fist struck the table, and the plates and cups rattled, and the tears leaked out of his eyes. " _How_. _Much_."

 He drew a breath. "I remember her," he said in a small, creaking voice. And then he couldn't speak anymore. His squeezed shut, never wanting to let go, and his body shuddered with mute sobs.

 In that moment he was blind to everything. Sorrow, a sorrow whose origins and history he knew nothing of, crushed his chest and his stomach, finally claiming the space it had been living in all along.

 After some time, he heard a chair scraping against the floor, Luthor's footsteps. He felt Luthor's presence hovering over him, and then Luthor's hands gently sliding down his cheeks, fingertips hooking onto his chin, and pulling his head back.

 He opened his eyes.

 Luthor stared back, blank, quiet. It made him want to be quiet too. 

 The last of the sorrow bled from his eyes and from his mouth with each shallow gasp. Luthor's hands and eyes steadied him like they were siphoning all of his emotions until there was nothing left, and his being joined with that nothing. 

 It was as freeing as drawing the final breath.

 Luthor turned one hand and began stroking his face in a rhythm. It pulled him deeper down into the nothing.

 "Exactly what," Luthor murmured, "do you remember about her."

 It was like something was speaking through him: "Her hair. Her eyes. How much I love her. How much I miss her."

 It hurt again but melted in the fingers stroking his face.

 "You won't miss her for much longer," Luthor said softly. "She'll be dead soon. Now, be a good boy and finish your breakfast. You have a long day ahead of you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this count as emotional torture porn? And yet it's been so cathartic to write. I hope it has been so for you to read. If you have anon questions/comments, holla at me: misinterpreted789.tumblr.com.


	7. Feral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to update so late. I've been so busy. I'll try to get the next chapter out next week.
> 
> Also, new warnings apply as of this chapter: horrific psychosexual carnivorism. Is that even a thing? If you love bats (I mean the animal, not the Batman...or DO I mean the Batman?) maybe don't scroll down.

 

 

Even though he wasn't hungry, he picked up his fork again and forced the food down while Luthor watched. He ate until Luthor permitted him to stop. By then he was past full, yet still empty.

He was encouraged, though, as they walked through the steel maze. Luthor paused to pat him on the shoulder with an almost fatherly sincerity.

"I want you to know that I'm very pleased with you," he said in a condescending cadence. "Truly. You've been very well-behaved. Even when I can tell you don't want to, you've always made the decision to obey."

Then Luthor led the way again, his hands clasped behind his back. Superman wanted to follow on his hands and knees, but that sort of expression of devotion was meant to be reserved for private moments; it was a rule. But to want this and to be denied it for now--it motivated him. It made each step he took more meaningful, more purposeful, as though he were putting distance between himself and the dreams. He walked the long road to his fate with less temptation to look back. 

When they arrived at the observation deck of the cube, they met a team of scientists, including the one with the glasses. He stared at that scientist as they spoke with Luthor, feeling something at the edge of his memory, and slowly the memory coalesced into a blurry picture: this scientist, holding his head and murmuring some consolations; he'd been upset; he'd been afraid; but the scientist made him feel so much better, and so he'd gotten up and allowed himself to be strapped into a machine... 

"Superman, come here." When Luthor spoke, he awoke from his reverie, and suddenly he could hear the surrounding buzz of computers and typing again. 

He stepped forward to Luthor's side. "Yes, sir?"

"There's someone who wants to meet you."  His gaze followed Luthor's hand gesturing down to the woman standing before him. She was short even in heels, and her pantsuit bulged with untamed fat. But her eyes were incisive in a way that he'd come to expect from his superiors; he yielded.

Then she surprised him by almost elbowing past Luthor and extended her hand. "I'm Amanda Waller," she said. "I'm the director of this project."

He stared at her handed suspended in the air: skin dry and cracking, red nails commanding to be noticed. For a second too long he wavered, at a loss--nothing in his training had prepared him to be treated as an equal. He glanced at Luthor, but that was a mistake that he realized upon seeing the frustration in his face. Out of shame, he grasped Waller's hand and averted his eyes.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Waller," he said. "I'm Superman. I serve the President." 

Her hand gripped his in a steel embrace.

"I would like a word with him," she said to Luthor. "Alone."

After an almost indiscernible pause, Luthor replied: "By all means."

Alone, he followed her to an empty conference room. When the lights came to life and the door shut, he felt lost suddenly and longed for Luthor's steady presence. Ms. Waller gestured to a seat at the table, and eager to follow a command he sat down. The chair scraped against the floor as, across from him, she pulled herself closer to table.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, Superman," she said. "I trust that you'll answer honestly."

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. He looked directly into her face.

"What is your mission here on earth?"

He relaxed. "To protect and serve the President of the United States, Mr. Luthor," he answered swiftly.

"OK," she answered flatly. He frowned. Wasn't that the correct answer? "And what if Mr. Luthor is no longer the president?" 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind offered nothing. So did her expressionless eyes, but he still pleaded with her silently for the correct answer.

"What I'm asking you," she said, "is--if it came down to it--who would you obey: the next President of the United States, or Lex Luthor?"

He was even more confused. He shifted in his seat. "I don't understand," he said. "Lex Luthor _is_ the president."

She didn't even blink. "What does your training consist of?"

He explained his daily tasks in The Cube. As he spoke, his confidence restored itself a little. 

"You look thin," she said. "Too thin for a super soldier. What are they feeding you?"

He described everything he'd eaten that morning. He failed to add that that breakfast was a break from routine; instinctively, he knew not to say that.

"Your room is directly connected to Oval Office. Did you know that?"

"Y-yes," he answered. Ms. Waller's eyes narrowed.

"How often does he visit you down there." 

"Every day."

"How many times a day." 

"Once. To check on me."

"To check on you," she repeated, as though she were tasting the words in her mouth. "Is that _all_ he does?"

He stiffened. "Yes," he answered.

She didn't move. "You can't lie to humans," she uttered. "I'll ask directly. Does he ever do things with you sexually?"

He couldn't lie to humans. He couldn't lie to them and he couldn't kill them: those were the rules. But a lie had been implanted in his brain. Of its own volition, the lie writhed out from its hiding place and flew out of his mouth: "No." 

She stared him down with hardened, analytical eyes, but he stared back. The lie was absolute, and he found strength in it, in his devotion to Luthor. Finally her statuesque severity crumbled; she sat back in her chair as her shoulders furrowed around her sigh.

Hands gripping the armrests of her chair, she pushed herself up. He followed suit. And they returned to Mr. Luthor and the scientists. When he saw him, he felt at ease again.

When Luthor saw her, he smiled wickedly and asked, "Did you find out what you wanted to know?"

He watched the back of her immobile head. Then he heard her say, "Begin the experiment. Let's see if you know what you're doing."

 

\--

 Again he stood in The Cube, alone but not feeling alone, not with all the observers stationed behind the two way mirrors. He didn't mind the extra eyes watching him, especially because he had been permitted to take off the suit, which he still did not like. As instructed, he stood by the door and looked up at the steel box that hung from the ceiling.  

He heard the screeching of some kind of animal from within the box, and it made him shiver. He wanted to spit, but he knew that such uncivilized behavior would displease his superiors.

Then the metal walls of the box collapsed, revealing a cage of hissing, flying bats.

Everything sank in red. His chest tightened.

The cage door opened and the bats fanned out in escape.

_Kill it! Kill it!_

Hatred, defiant of words, of reason. It strangled his brain and squeezed out every coherent thought.  Hatred and hunger, and the bridge between them: rage. His eyes darted from bat to bat, his mouth hung open. One by one the bats fell to his feet, like scorched petals of a flower. 

As he watched them fall, as he heard their bodies plop on the ground, his erection came to life. He hated them, but he loved them. They were disgusting, they were filthy. And now they were his.

He walked to the nearest one, knelt down, and with trembling hands scooped it up. He stared at its wings fluttering hypnotically. 

To feel its leathery wings rip in his hands as delicately as rice paper . . . a thrill reverberated through him down to his toes, hot waves of it. The conversion of hatred into violence consumed him, made his thumbs crush the little bat's belly. Brought the disgusting, broken body to his mouth and sank his teeth into its soft rodent flesh, as his tongue lapped at the delicious blood gushing forth. Sucked and sucked the blood, and rode wave after wave of orgasm as it spilled out from his penis.

On his hands and knees, like a beast stalking prey, he moved to another bat wriggling in its death throes. And another. And another. His erection never wavered through it all, even though semen kept spilling over his thighs and onto the floor. The last bat remained chewed and desiccated in his mouth when a voice over the intercom said soothingly: "Baby blue eyes."

His jaw relaxed and the bat tumbled down. His penis deflated. His eyelids drooped. Everything he'd felt--the rage, the desire--was gone. _Baby blue eyes._ Normal color had returned to the room. The words had erased him.

He was facing the two-way mirror on his knees. For the first time since his training in The Cube had begun, he saw more than just the outline of his body. He saw the blood staining the whole of his jaw. He saw his palms flat against the floor like a dog's front paws, and his beastly shoulders stooped over them. He saw his own eyes. He'd never noticed them before. They were blue like an empty sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I do accept and appreciate kudos and comments.


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